


Ore-sama no Dungeon

by mercurysensei



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 12:51:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13975530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercurysensei/pseuds/mercurysensei
Summary: “Be awed. Ore-sama will entertain your desires.”Atobe is the proud owner of a dungeon club and these are his Valentine's Day shenanigans.This porn & crack was written for the discord NSFW Valentine's Zine:E Kimochi





	Ore-sama no Dungeon

The room was very purple. A crystal chandelier hung low, reflecting different shades of light on the Makassar ebony tables that framed the stage. The full roses bunched together to seemingly bloom on just about every flat surface were more uncommon for a dungeon.

“Everything must be perfect for the Valentine’s event,” Atobe dictated as he signed shiny prints of himself splayed naked on the bar top with only a ruby collar at his neck and a million euro bottle of champagne between his legs.

Taki sat on his right, initialing and laminating tickets. “Jirou, you’re not cutting these evenly. Use the big slicer and not the scissors.”

“Absolutely not,” Atobe set another signature down to dry in the stack that Mukahi was only pretending to cultivate. “He will fall asleep mid-swing and slice off a thumb.”

“Hmm,” Taki agreed. “And there would be blood all over the tickets.”

“Indeed. Take particular care with that one,” Atobe said, handing over one of his autographed pictures. “I want this laminated and paired with the most well cut voucher of the bunch.”

“I would ask who it was for, but…”

“Is it for Tezuka-san?” Akutagawa shattered Taki’s attempt at delicacy mid-yawn.

Atobe’s lips bunched sourly. His pursuit of Tezuka post dissolving his partnership with Kabaji was hardly anyone else’s business; so, naturally, everyone else was interested. “That’s none of your business.”

Although Tezuka had never cashed in on free sessions he had been offered intermittently, this time was different. His picture would all but leap off the glossy page, take Tezuka by the chin, and lead him into his scene. He would realize that all along he had wanted to have Atobe’s pretty, smooth skin beneath his fingertips.

“Perhaps you could entrust that task to me,” Oshitari purred. The presence of nudes must have pulled him into the room.

Atobe smirked, “To cut a voucher neatly, yes, but not to steal one.”

“I had hoped for one of those pictures as payment,” Oshitari put a dramatic hand over his heart, “I’m your biggest fan.”

“Perhaps my biggest insufferable fool,” Atobe said, full of fondness, and made the picture out as such. As a personal favor, he added a few xoxo.

Perfectly amused, Oshitari received the photo and pushed it against his chest. One foot went up behind him and he swooned.

“You’re going to ruin the ink,” Atobe pointed out.

“Smudged by my love,” Oshitari winked. He peered over at the rest of the ticket pile and continued, “Would you give me one of those as well?” Oshitari asked. “I’ve been booked for Valentine’s Day.”

Everyone looked in surprise at Oshitari, who almost never dealt out discounts or freebies. Rather, the tensai always seemed to ferret more out of clients with his charm. “Booked by someone special?” Taki asked.

“Ah, my delightful Kenya.”

“What? Your cousin booked you?” Shishido walked in with a long scroll of paper. Setting aside the stacked coupons, Taki thanked Shishido and pointed to an empty corner for temporary storage.

“No, no. His boyfriend booked me. It’s a surprise,” Oshitari said.

Leaning on the scroll, Shishido snorted, “A dom session with your cousin would definitely be a surprise.”

“For the Oshitaris, it’s probably just Tuesday,” Taki sighed.

“I’ll have you know that Valentine’s falls on a Wednesday, quite outside of Incest Tuesday.”

“You got a copyright on that, Yushi?” Shishido asked, not even looking over his shoulder as he heaved his armful.

Oshitari sighed, “You know, for some reason Hallmark won’t accept my greeting card submissions.”

“You should ask Hiyoshi to proofread them,” Mukahi suggested, cackling before the words could even completely leave his grin. “Put that college mind to work.”

The door leading to the bar opened and a damp towel flew out, floating in the air long enough to land atop Mukahi’s head with a certain disgusting majesty. “Why am I even working here?” Hiyoshi muttered, and slammed the door shut again.

There was a moment of silence before laughter bubbled forth, filling the shameless bar with mirth, and then Mukahi’s shrieks.

 

+

 

“Note that am already wearing the glittering outfit,” Atobe asserted. The shimmering fabric only pretended to cover his chest.

“You’re always wearing a glittering outfit!”

On a table at the foot of the stage, Taki made the final sweep of a large calligraphy brush, spelling out celebratory words on a giant scroll. As he surveyed his work, he said, “Keigo, I know that you wanted to ride the glittering trapeze, but we really do need to get our walkthrough started.”

When Taki chose to take charge, he was very thorough and always insisted on walking through his scenes. Atobe didn’t dislike that about the feminine man, even as he rather hated the way Taki’s stilettos brought him up taller.

Mukahi stopped arguing to read Taki’s handiwork, “Congratulations on your marriage, Tanishi…” Mukahi’s thick brows arched into his fringe. “Sounds fake, but okay.”

“Go ahead and tell him tomorrow, then, that his marriage is fake news,” Atobe examined his nails.

“You had better not,” Taki said, in his accountant voice. “We’re making a handsome sum from his bachelor party.”

Mukahi bit his bottom lip to contain the mirth he threw Atobe’s way, “You’re just annoyed because he booked you.”

“Of course he booked me, I’m the best.” That had nothing to do with Atobe’s lack of desire to speak with the robust Okinawa, let alone sub for him.

Mukahi snorted. He had more to say, but Taki grabbed Atobe by the wrist. “We’re doing our walkthrough, Keigo. We’ll draw a big crowd tomorrow and I won’t do this otherwise.”

Atobe sighed obligingly. He praised himself for being cooperative and patient. “Very well. Where is the mirror?”

“Why, on the stage, of course,” Taki grinned. “It’s a proper rehearsal.”

Atobe perked up, “Full costume, then,” he did love the shimmering, open poet shirt for that act. Which was worlds apart from the glittering, clingy button-down shirt he currently wore.

Taki tapped his fingers against his lips and considered. “Full costume, yes. Not full makeup.”

“Ore-sama will wear full makeup. Otherwise, how will I know if it sweats off onto the mirror and camera?”

With a bow, Taki said, “As you wish.”

“Then,” Atobe tossed his hair. “Don’t wear the heels.”

Taki only laughed as he strutted to their dressing room. Although Atobe rather thought Taki should take him more seriously, he enjoyed how the light sound played on their superb acoustics.

Mukahi must have noticed his distraction, because he seized on the much-disputed swing. “Mine, bitches!”

“Keep your cheap victory,” Atobe said as he sauntered off. “Ore-sama will build his own swing in his own private cage.”

On his perch, Mukahi looked incredulous. “How big is his cage going to get?”

 

+

 

Atobe changed carefully. Even with rehearsal, it was important to get his head into the game. He adorned himself both mentally and physically until a hint of arousal dispersed, a layer of armor to intercept every gesture that would come his way.

When he kneeled over the mirror and planted his hands on the glass, he admired the poet shirt; its light satin spilled down to give the empty chairs a peek at Atobe’s fine collar and the sculpted lines of his chest. His lashes dipped, kissing pale cheeks as he studied himself with interest. And that was when Taki started to pet him, neck to tailbone, favoring every bump of his spine with more supplication than domination.

“You like what you see, Keigo?” A silly question — how could he not? “Does looking at yourself make you hard?”

“Obviously,” Atobe hummed, spreading his knees farther apart, such that the hypothetical audience could glimpse his tented underwear. “In circles now.”

“I think not,” Taki gave Atobe’s pert bottom a pinch.

Atobe bristled. “If you must with the discipline, then at least do something useful,” he knew from experience that Taki could do better things with his hands.

“Not yet. Now don’t forget to look down -- I put that yellow sticker where the camera will be,” Taki’s touch followed the curve of his behind, hooking two fingers into his bikini. Atobe curled his back, belly hanging low to prominently display his rear.

“As if ore-sama would forget,” he muttered harshly. A normal person might be more nervous at the prospect of their face being projected on a big screen above.

Taki tugged the fabric up and snapped it down on his bottom. Atobe yelped, glaring over his shoulder at Taki even as his arousal kindled in its confines. “You dare.”

“But look,” Taki herded Atobe along. “How nice that flush looks on your face.” Those fingers smoothed back up, obligingly making slow, sweeping circles in time with their hypnotic music and climbing higher, until Atobe could feel Taki’s weight pushing against his lower back.

Taki’s fingers compelled Atobe to look in the mirror. It was true. Atobe was stunning like this — getting his way. Atobe licked his lips and so did his mirror twin. The man in the glass rocked slightly on his knees, color crawling up from his plunging neckline. His glare flickered into a smolder, which he directed at Taki’s eyes in the mirror.

“I’m very useful,” Taki slid his hand along his shirt, leaving the silky material between his fingertips when they captured Atobe’s nipple. The kneeling blond could only manage a full-bodied groan in response. The sound lingered on the perfect acoustics, expanding like a fine wine on an appreciative palate. “I brought you a present.”

Atobe fluttered his lashes, squirming enticingly as he waited for his tribute. Then, Taki drew a long chain from his short skirt and let one end of the gleaming clamp necklace drop down over Atobe’s shoulder.

“No,” Atobe said, shivering just to think of what that bite would inflict on his nipples. 

“No?” Taki said at a teasing lilt, tracing the shell of Atobe’s ear with his tongue. Atobe adored the way Taki let his full weight fall on his tabled back, leaving his other hand free to taunt his chest. “That’s not your safe word, Keigo.”

That mouth was an assault weapon. Atobe bit his lip and recovered. “That much is obvious,” he muttered.

“It’ll be over the shirt,” Taki said, seeing one of the clips toward the wide opening of Atobe’s collar.

“No,” Atobe bucked. “You’ll ruin the fabric before the performance.”

“But you don’t like it that harsh on your skin,” Taki frowned.

Over waiting for Taki to continue, Atobe reached back and caught Taki’s ass under the skirt. When Taki gasped, Atobe rocked and squeezed, compelling the slighter man to grind. Atobe’s smirk grew sharper in the mirror. “Perhaps we should use it on you, ahn? See how you like your shirt being ruined.”

“That’s -- mmm….” Taki groaned, burying his face between Atobe’s shoulders. “Not the program.”

“Fret not, ore-sama will ensure a perfect program tomorrow,” The former captain and his dancing hips entertained no argument. “When have I ever failed?”

Taki had no answer, so Atobe pounced. In a mad collision of limbs and horny bodies, he turned and Taki landed delectably on top of him. Before Taki could huff about his ruined program, Atobe stole his protest in kisses, burning and supple like his Tannhauser serve. He tasted a fevered moan and brought Taki against him with a firm grip beneath his skirt. The short faux leather skirt did nothing to hide the brunette’s clothed length pushing enticingly against Atobe’s.

Taki had decided not to fight the overpowering current, because when Atobe nibbled along Taki’s jaw to goad in his ear, “I’m going to fuck you on that damn mirror,” he shivered and twitched in Atobe’s arms. Atobe chuckled and favored his other shoulder with a little bite, because nothing turned Taki on more than symmetry. “Be awed by ore-sama’s eight inches.” And measurement.

Panting, Taki said, “Seven and three-quarters.”

Atobe rolled Taki face down on the mirror. The svelte man laughed, going easily on his chest and knees, his giggles progressing to soft cries when Atobe nibbled at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “It’s a precision instrument,” he argued and grinded that professed instrument against the small, pert cheeks.

Breathless yet sassy, Taki returned, “Then you should be more precise in describing it.” Before Atobe could continue defending his manhood, Taki offered sufficient distraction with the suggestion, “Check my pocket.”

“How does this have room for pockets?” He took his time sliding his hands up Taki’s front, chasing the soft skin up his partner’s legs until he came close to the waist. Two index fingers slotted into the tight space and came up with a sachet of lube and a condom. “Ahn,” Atobe drawled, ever so pleased and showing it in open-mouthed kisses to Taki’s neck, where his smooth, straight hair parted. “You’ve been wanting me, haven’t you?”

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

Atobe hummed, untucked Taki’s shirt, and began to unbutton the garment. When he hooked his chin over Taki’s shoulder, he met darker eyes in the mirror and asserted, “Absolutely not.”

“Then sure, eat your heart out.”

“Maybe later,” Atobe answered, plucking up an abandoned clasp and drawing circles around one of Taki’s clothed nipples with the leather. “I promised to ruin your shirt.”

Taki sighed, “The costume budget comes out of your pocket.”

Atobe chuckled and noted with great delight how the sound made Taki’s skirt jump in the front. “I can afford it.” It was even better when the tight clamp made Taki gasp and writhe back on him. He nipped at Taki’s shoulder and contrasted the pinch with the well-moisturized caress of his fingertips.

Atobe continued; he teased and strummed an inarticulate crescendo, stirring and building until Taki’s manicured nails bit into his forearm. “Keigo…” he whispered, and it was enough. Atobe looped the chain around Taki’s back between their bodies and then treated that valiant bud and its sensitive nerve endings to an extremely expensive necklace. As he nuzzled down Taki’s silky shirt, Atobe considered telling him that the clamps cost more than their monthly soda budget.

Now that would really make Taki scream.

His hands not so secretly traversed slim legs to invade that skirt and thumb the tight curve of the brunette’s bottom. “You’ll have to say my name much louder than that,” Atobe shifted Taki’s underwear to the side with a few delicate motions. When Taki arched, he dipped his fingers between supple cheeks and reveled in the feel of velvety flesh. “Nah, Taki? Or the cameras won’t pick it up.”

Taki’s chuckle shivered into a wheeze; the unexpected sound plucked up the chords of Atobe’s arousal, bidding him to grind on Taki’s thigh with that music.

“Nnn,” Taki pushed back on him, so Atobe offered more -- his fingers met the tightly gathered muscle and circled closer. “Kabaji doesn’t need to hear this,” he eventually choked out, when Atobe stopped harassing him long enough to reach for the lube.

“Maybe he should,” Atobe drawled, spellbound by the movement of his reflection in the mirror. His coloring was almost luminescent next to the tanned dream of Taki’s skin, but the exhilarated hues of arousal complimented them both; roses were classic for a reason.

Atobe smirked at himself in the mirror and seductively ripped open the lube with his teeth. A loud, startling crash fumbled the sticky sachet out of his mouth and messily onto Taki’s bunched skirt. Alert, Atobe looked up to see their young bartender looking flushed, wet with liquor, and highly irritated. Right -- he had asked Hiyoshi to stock up on the essentials for their main event.

“I hate all of you,” Hiyoshi growled, scooping up the broken bottles.

“Aren’t you supposed to be graceful as a martial artist?” Atobe complained as Hiyoshi straightened and offered him a choice finger. To Taki, he said, “You think he would be used to it by now.”

Hiyoshi made his disgruntled exit, letting the door slam behind him. Having heard the crash (and most likely Hiyoshi’s cursing), Oshitari peeked through the still swinging door and said, “Must you torment the children?”

“It’s all right, Yushi, he simply cannot handle how much I turn him on,” Atobe declared and looked down. His erection had been rather scared off by the surprise.

Oshitari, as per usual, took entertainment from his abject suffering. Dark eyes glittering, he approached and started to help Taki re-dress. “The seven stages of arousal by Hiyoshi Wakashi?”

“Denial is the first,” Taki made a face when Oshitari removed the clamp and rubbed a circle over his harassed nipple.

“Anger,” Atobe proposed, obviously.

Oshitari chuckled and said, “The anger thing again.”

“...All right, maybe it’s not seven stages,” Taki was unable to complete the list despite his eternal love of counting. Atobe was shocked into laughter. And where he led, Oshitari and Taki followed until a different sort of warmth filled the bar.

“Come on, sweethearts,” Oshitari bid eventually. “Let’s wash you up and have a nice soak before our big night.”

“If you absolutely insist, ore-sama will allow you to wash his back,” Atobe stood and, as they left, snatched a bottle of intact glenlivet from the bar top.

 

+

 

Atobe had spent the day cultivating a naturally enticing, rested glow. By the time his limo arrived, stopping every so often to pick up one of his workers, it was already well into the afternoon. Thanks to their thorough preparations, there was naught for performers to do but get ready. Atobe moisturized. Shishido brushed his hair. Akutagawa, their resident host, napped on Atobe’s lap long after the hairdressers and makeup artists had arrived. While Atobe had his brows accentuated, he tangled his fingers in Akutagawa’s perfect disorder of curls.

Clad in one of Oshitari’s too-long button downs, Mukahi slid into the dressing room on thickly socked feet, “Guys, we have a line down the block!”

“Of course,” Atobe would have tossed his hair, but that might have disturbed getting his brows on fleek. Even without advertising or special events, World of Ice had plenty of business. After this, they could likely go an entire year without printing a single poster. Not that they would. Neither Atobe nor his crew intended to cap ambition so early in the year.

He wanted to peer out the window at the burgeoning line, but that would set a distracting example for Ohtori, who was fitting Shishido into an assortment of leather straps for their whipping demonstration.

“I want to make sure your back is bare, though,” Ohtori fretted over the bindings, which were, to Atobe’s eyes, as meticulous as they were going to get within their time frame. “My aim has improved but it’s not perfect.”

“It’s fine,” Shishido assured the taller man and stepped confidently into his space to take him by the hand. “Just like we practiced, Choutarou? You won’t hit down here…” he guided Ohtori’s fingers — calloused by his violin and sultry extracurricular — to his lower back, just over one of his kidneys.

Ohtori shook his head vehemently. “I won’t. And we covered it just in case.”

“Then,” Shishido playfully tugged one of the white curls adorning Ohtori’s head. “You’re fine. If you accidentally hit one of the straps, it’s okay, I can take it.”

“But that’s not the point.”

“Maybe it is if we want it to be.”

“I don’t want it to be. I mean -- I want it to be good for you.”

“Maybe I like being strong for you,” Shishido said. Although Shishido sounded cheesy, like he were some kind of movie hero and an impending explosion might kill them all, Atobe couldn’t help the strange, whirling emotion that interrupted his usual mental preparation. The makeup artist even had to move his face for him.

Atobe was grateful when Hiyoshi halted his stirring jealousy with, “Ugh, get a room.” The martial artist went on his toes to retrieve a heavy box of glenlivet; his glare informed Atobe that he knew exactly how it had gone mysteriously missing the night before.

“We’re going to have a stage,” Shishido declared.

Atobe smirked. “You’ll have it after I do.”

“We do,” Taki corrected, relieving Atobe’s makeup artist. “Let me finish you up?”

Atobe sighed, as if much put upon to oblige his partner in the opening act. “Make sure you blend the shimmer, this time. Last week did not do my eyes justice at all.”

Taki successfully interpreted that acquiescence to build up their comfort with each other before the act. “I know this is different for you,” Taki said. Atobe’s glare in the mirror warned him to tread carefully on still fresh wounds. “But I need to know, Keigo. Are we going to follow the plan, or should I expect to roll with the punches?”

Atobe didn’t appreciate the implication that he couldn’t follow an outline that he agreed to perform. He appreciated even less that Taki brought up his recent change in role. “Ore-sama would never do anything so crass as punching.”

“I know that,” Taki said patiently as he highlighted Atobe’s cheekbones with the brush. “And neither would I.”

It wasn’t the same chemistry that Ohtori and Shishido had and it wasn’t even close to what Atobe had felt for Kabaji, but it was warm and fortifying for their years of trust and close association.

“Then,” Atobe declared, turning his face just so for Taki’s brush. “Let us awe everyone with our routine.”

Taki smiled and said, “Aye.”

 

+

 

The moment he was alone in the hallway, Atobe rubbed his nipple and made a face. He had performed their routine to the letter, but those clamps had a fiercer bite than he had remembered. “Taki should be grateful, under the circumstances,” he said, strolling down the hallway in search of the closest person that they had to a doctor.

Recalling that Oshitari had an appointment in the silk room, Atobe unlocked a door to a narrow, more decorated path. Sumptuous red carpeting led the way to one of their hidden suites. From that room and its one-way wall, Atobe could check on how long Oshitari would take to attend him and the tensai’s guests would be none the wiser.

An Osaka drawl that did not belong to Oshitari greeted him, “Kenya-san, you can do it, look at the camera.”

“Nnnn,” Kenya’s fingers scrambled ineffectually on the silk bindings holding his arms overhead. The blond Oshitari’s wet, squeezed-shut eyes struggled to open and focus on the little tensai kneeling between his legs and filming the scene. The phone’s LED glow illuminated where Kenya danced, suspended and exhilarated on Oshitari Yushi’s lap. 

Flushed and trembling with arousal and exhaustion -- just how long had this been going on? -- Kenya and his athletic thighs fucked down on Oshitari’s cock and wiggled. “It’s not fair,” Kenya choked. “Just move.”

It wasn’t clear whether he was talking to Zaizen -- every sweaty, lustful bounce sent Kenya’s heat bobbing closer and closer to Zaizen’s parted lips -- or Oshitari, who only worked so hard as to make his lap nice and accommodating for Kenya’s complete debauchery. 

“It’s quite fair -- You have the most energy, after all,” Oshitari cuddled close, winding long arms around Kenya’s waist as he nibbled his shoulder with a frustrating indolence that Atobe recognized. It was so like him and Atobe completely sympathized. And suddenly understood why the room was popular for anyone with a cuckold fetish. He raked manicured fingers down his own firm chest and closed his eyes, letting the erotic combination of Yushi’s sultry baritone and the couple’s lascivious exchange transport him.

“I thought--” Kenya gasped mid-protest, his thoughts interrupted with the thorough buggering he was giving himself. Voice markedly higher on the second try, Kenya said, “It’s supposed to be good cop, bad cop. Not bad cop, bad cop.”

That explained Oshitari’s police outfit on the floor. It looked better on Oshitari, but he was not about to complain of the view, so sensual that it classified as an assault.

“Ken-Ken,” Yushi purred in that absolutely illegal voice. “I’m wounded, really.”

Zaizen was even less repentant than Yushi. And fully clothed in police uniform, Atobe noted. But he couldn’t pick apart the outfit for long. Pleasure wet Kenya’s swollen length, giving it a particular sheen when Zaizen drew near and breathed. Atobe wondered if his breath was chilly or warm, and found himself twitching all the same. Poor Kenya -- the lucky bastard stuck between two terrible geniuses.

“You can’t be mad, Kenya-san,” Zaizen said, and Kenya probably disagreed. “When we tied you up, you just said we couldn’t go slow. See, you’re taking as much of Yushi-san as you want.”

“My poor Ken-chan,” Yushi strummed a nipple, pulling actual tears from the blond taking him for a spin. He turned Kenya’s face to claim his mouth and kiss the trails of water from his cheeks. Atobe licked his lips as Yushi swallowed up Kenya’s moans. Yushi’s deep voice murmured almost inaudibly, “Why don’t you give it to him, Zaizen-kun? Look how good he’s being.”

“I’m good,” Kenya agreed, all red eyes, glistening skin, and quaking muscles. Atobe pressed his forehead on the cool wall and stroked himself faster as Kenya pleaded, “I’ll be good. I’ll be…”

Zaizen refused with a shake of his head. “You said that if we came here for the Valentine’s event, I could film you. You’re not going to distract me this time.”

Kenya’s writhing surely had Yushi rubbing all the right buttons on the inside, because the blonde looked like he had forgotten all about the recording. He whimpered and blinked tearstained eyes at the camera, voice trembling, “Is it...good?”

Zaizen’s pink, pierced tongue traced his lips, showing Kenya just how powerless he really was when it retreated to form the words, “...It’s really lewd, Kenya-san.”

Kenya pulled at his binds and sobbed openly. From behind, Oshitari impaled him with heat and embraced him with the low, velvet mumbles that often drove Atobe to distraction. “Please, Hikaru…Yuuhi...I just wanna cum, I...”

His dick bounced with him, the abandoned length full and weeping in front of Zaizen. The tensai fluttered his lashes downward as he let the hot flesh fall on his extended tongue once, twice -- but denied a third so quickly that Kenya shook with the loss.

“Tell you what,” Zaizen whispered, eyes on his screen instead of Kenya. “I’ll put you in my mouth.”

“Yes,” Kenya choked, a cry ripping from his throat when he wriggled Yushi home.

“After you cum. As long as you don’t get any in my hair.”

Yushi nibbled Kenya’s ear and plucked at his painfully stiff nipple. “He’s so beautiful when he cries.”

“I’m getting it in HD,” Zaizen opened his mouth, acting like he just might close it every time Kenya’s cock dipped close. Oshitari Kenya screamed silently, sniffling and squirming like he wanted the air to jack him off into Zaizen’s tempting mouth already. Kenya managed to brushed Zaizen’s cheek and all but shrieked, slamming back down on Yushi. 

Kenya teetered on the precipice. Atobe saw deep into the bound, defenseless man and read the fluttering charge of electricity and desire pushing him taunt and tight, filling him up like the thick length holding him open. Atobe followed, his jerking hand edging orgasm nearer and nearer as he waited for that one moment that would bring the pair’s work and Kenya’s torment to fruition. Yushi wouldn’t be much longer either; Atobe knew that patchwork flush climbing and claiming Oshitari’s sensitive neck.

Atobe parted his lips and took a harsh breath, but it was Zaizen who spoke the words, “Come for me, Kenya-san.”

And he did, in spectacular color. Kenya sobbed and arched his head back on Yushi’s shoulder, erupting until all of the screaming feelings had flooded out, leaving his nerves abuzz with their echoes. Judging by the melted look on Yushi’s face, indulging his cousin to that extent had him just as satiated.

Delighting in the aftermath, Zaizen slinked forward to capture Kenya’s spent and vulnerable cock. He bathed the sensitized flesh with his tongue and peered up at Kenya. Moaning softly with the stimulation, Kenya pushed his hands into clean locks and went boneless against Yushi, fully allowing the two geniuses manipulate his aftershocks

“Yushi…” he whispered, feeling groundless until Yushi squeezed him, calm, familiar, and whispering nothings that guided his shipwrecked brain back to shore.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” Oshitari whispered. “We’re going to unstring you, okay?”

“Nnn,” Kenya acknowledged, presumably because he didn’t have the strength to nod.

As Hyoutei’s tensai reached up for the silks, Zaizen delicately withdrew from his prize to make sure that Kenya didn’t tumble from lack of support. “You all right, Oshitari-san?” Zaizen asked, thin brow rose.

“Aside from not being able to feel my thighs? Wonderful,” Yushi chuckled and offered a wink to his Shitenhouji counterpart. “You had better share that video, Zaizen-kun.”

“And you had better not,” Zaizen emphasized.

Oshitari could see to his nipples later, Atobe decided as the tensai’s made a Kenya sandwich upon the lush pile of blankets. Even if Atobe’s now sticky hands and waiting public didn’t take precedence, Oshitari (occasionally) deserved some covert bliss. “Never let it be said that ore-sama is not an indulgent boss.”

Atobe was almost sure that he felt Yushi’s eyes on him as he walked out. But of course, the construction of that wall made such a feat rather impossible.

 

+

 

Atobe didn’t enjoy wrestling his kouhai into submission; it was all in a day’s work. Never again would he believe anyone who tried to say that Hiyoshi, his prize martial artist and protégé, ever let him win a damn thing. No -- only brute strength, pure will, and complete surprise could have wrestled Hyoutei’s resident grump into the tiny toga skirt and pink wings that he currently wore.

It was a work of art, made more entertaining by the young bartender’s sour expression.

“Stay still,” Atobe demanded, trying to seize Cupid-Hiyoshi for a picture.

“Gekokujou…” Hiyoshi snarled, pushing rather rudely at Atobe’s face.

“Love is ever so evasive, isn’t it, Atobe-kun?”

Both former Hyoutei players turned toward the voice. Pink cupid feathers fluttered down to Fuji Syusuke’s luxurious ankle boots.

“And how did you get here?” Atobe released Hiyoshi in favor of grasping his drink, such that he could toss it in Fuji’s face at any minute.

Fuji merely smiled. “Excuse me, Cupid-kun, might I get a Bloody Mary?”

When Hiyoshi turned to do just that, Atobe thought he heard him say only if your name is Mary. He fell for his protégé all over again. Love wasn’t evasive at all. He loved his bitter Hiyoshi as much as he loved the rest of his Hyoutei (except for perhaps, Mukahi, who looked entirely too happy on that swing).

Fuji helped himself to a seat beside Atobe. “So I hear that you’re out a steady partner.”

“It’s good news, truly,” Atobe said, voice cool and smooth like the expensive glass in his hand. “Munehiro adores his wife to be. I wish only happiness for them.” It didn’t matter that Kabaji was no longer his submissive partner; he was still his best friend and had long earned Atobe’s complete support.

“Of course,” Fuji grinned, elegant and serrated. “I’m sure it had nothing to do with your sudden decision to see if the grass is greener on the other side, or with this…” between two perfectly manicured fingers, Fuji held out the coupon for a free session to dominate Atobe Keigo.

Atobe had only given out one such coupon. Anger and embarrassment collided and twisted, twin dragons coiling and rising up his throat. His lips pursed shut, unwilling to give Fuji the satisfaction of his bite.

“Welcome to World of Ice!” Akutagawa exclaimed. If their sleepyhead was excited, that could only mean guests of interest. Higa had chosen that moment to all but crash into the ornate room. Although Tanishi was as physically imposing as he had been in junior high school, his features glowed to take in that sign. “You guys!!” the glittering party poppers went off, surrounding Tanishi’s smiling face with shimmering purple flakes.

Hiyoshi popped a bottle of prize champagne and Mukahi saw the brimming flutes over to their guests with flexible bravado.

“As you can see, ore-sama has a bachelor party to entertain and will be unable to see to your request. The most popular performer can hardly be available at the drop of a hat, you understand.”

“Indeed,” Fuji received his Bloody Mary. Before he took a sip, he said, “Tezuka sends his regards.”

Well, that was just straight up petty. Atobe did not dignify it with a reply at all, and instead, joined the rabble that had gathered beneath the Congratulations banner and bowed, more ornate and sweeping than truly deferential.

 

+

 

After seeing each member of the bachelor train off to their reserved entertainers, Atobe leashed Tanishi with a practiced smolder and sauntered toward his favorite private room. Tanishi rubbed his hands together when the door closed, as if in anticipation of a delicious meal.

“Be awed. Ore-sama will entertain your desires,” Atobe sat grandly upon a plush bench and crossed his bare legs. He still wore the nearly sheer shirt from his performance with Taki, but had changed into fresh hot pants.

Tanishi’s eyes licked him from elegant ankles to regal nose. Atobe soaked up the admiration and paid little mind to its source, until said source opened its mouth, “That face makes me want to spank you.”

Atobe wrinkled his nose. First of all, he did not have a face that begged to be spanked. Second of all, where was the foreplay? But never let it be said that Atobe Keigo could not do his work; he sighed and turned, exposing his bottom at a bend so cursory that even Tanishi was offended.

With a hand at the middle of his back, Tanishi forced Atobe’s chest to the bench, such that his assets were presented more prominently for his desires. Atobe glared like a cat being pet backwards and promising certain death for continued course of action. He was made to be worshipped, not manhandled.

“I’m going to do it now?” Tanishi said, questioning tone responding to Atobe’s vehement expression.

Atobe’s sarcastic drawl asked, “Are you telling, or asking me?”

Apparently that bit of lip was enough to remove Tanishi’s reservations, because he brought his massive hand down on Atobe’s clothed rear for a searing blow. Atobe tensed, hackles raised as he moved and caught that thick wrist. “No. My bottom is not a paddle drum and you will not touch me as such.”

With Atobe Keigo’s ass, there was no such thing as a second chance. He kicked Tanishi lightly back from him and demanded, “Undress.”

The startled okinawan obeyed.

It was strange. While Tanishi had been (attempting) to spank him, Atobe’s stream of consciousness ran scalding and vitriolic. But now that Tanishi had placed control into Atobe’s capable fingers, he couldn’t muster even an ounce of disgust for the disrobing man. Tanishi didn’t want to be insulted. He was nervous. Excited, but nervous. Atobe could see it in his thick, quaking fingertips and in the way he sucked in his gut and hunched.

“Shoulders upright,” Atobe demanded, selecting a pristine leather riding crop from the guest selection. He ran the leather loop from the dimples above Tanishi’s plump bottom up his spine. “Ore-sama wishes to test your strength. You’ll try, won’t you, Tanishi-kun?”

Tanishi shivered and nodded. When Atobe raised the crop to Tanishi’s shoulder, he exerted light pressure with the command that followed, “kneel.”

The larger man looked like he wanted to protest, but when Atobe rapped his shoulder again, he obeyed. Even on his knees, Tanishi hit Atobe well above the navel. It didn’t stop him from pushing his hand through short black strands, stirring them as he stepped over to his front.

He tugged Tanishi’s hair enough to force eye contact. “Does your fiancé know that you’re here?”

When Tanishi swallowed thickly and nodded, Atobe offered a rough caress, letting his fingertips linger over his scalp. “And what did she say to that?”

Deep red joined the rich, dark hues of Tanishi’s face. “She said...not below the waist.”

A generous woman, Atobe thought. “Very well,” he agreed easily. “Your safe word is camembert.” 

Tanishi tried to nod with questionable success, as Atobe was holding him by the hair.

“Say it for me.”

“...Kamenberuto…”

It was close enough. “Very well, you may use it to stop things anytime, without any judgment or questions.”

“I won’t,” Tanishi said stubbornly, meriting a thwack from the crop.

“You may,” Atobe emphasized. “And whether you use it or not has nothing to do with pleasing me. Ore-sama is a difficult coach…” he whispered, voice soft and satiny. “But he is not entirely unreasonable.”

Tanishi yelped -- knees spreading farther apart instinctively when Atobe bit his earlobe. “What…”

“Be as loud as you want,” Atobe smirked like a shark and stood upright, forcing Tanishi to look up the glorious length of his body. “None of your team can save you.”

“I don’t need to be saved!”

“If that’s the case,” Atobe strolled and, much to his pleasure, Tanishi’s eyes followed, “then get on your hands and knees and show ore-sama what you can accomplish with all that muscle.”

Just for fun and emphasis, he caught Tanishi on the ass with the crop. The pliant flesh greeted him with a wiggle and an unexpected rush of excitement crawled closer to the surface of his skin. It was more shock than force that brought Tanishi to the ground, folded into tabletop at Atobe’s feet. When Atobe planted his foot on Tanishi’s capable shoulder, the larger man glared wonderfully. After several moments -- Atobe could pinpoint the exact one -- Tanishi realized that he the hot pants Atobe wore under his long, luxurious poet shirt didn’t require much in the way of imagination.

“If you like what you see, feel at leisure to say so.” Exerting a bit of pressure with his bare foot, Atobe continued, “Or say so regardless. Anytime now.”

“You’re, uh…” Tanishi wet his lips. His eyes caught the sparkling buttons on Atobe’s shirt. “Very shiny.”

“Shiny,” Atobe deadpanned, withdrawing his foot. “Perhaps with a little pressure, you can think of a more appropriate compliment.”

Atobe sat upon Tanishi’s back. The action looked nonchalant, but he had done enough research to know which parts of the body could bear his not insignificant weight. Tanishi grunted, the fingertips that had spanked Atobe now arched beautifully against the floor.

“You’re…” Tanishi’s smooth, tan skin starting to glisten with effort. “A very healthy weight.”

“Push-ups. Now.”

What Atobe ordered, Tanishi implemented impressively. A droplet of sweat hit the floor and Atobe counted off each one. He was on seven when a familiar, hesitant knock sounded at the door exactly three times.

“Keigo-sama,” Only for Kabaji would he ever allow the disruption of a session.

“Please excuse me,” Atobe said, ruffling Tanishi’s hair in praise as he slid off of his back. “That’s my head of security.”

Atobe opened the door and found himself alone with Kabaji in the hallway. To anyone else, he looked normal, but Atobe’s insight noted Kabaji’s expression: stern, worried, and etched with anxiety. “What is it?”

“...” Kabaji tightened his lips. “There’s been a security breach. Your dressing room.”

“I assume that you’ve apprehended him,” Atobe said, concerned for his belongings.

Kabaji cocked his head, unsure of how to continue. “I…”

Atobe narrowed his eyes on Kabaji and asked, “You haven’t?”

Kabaji closed his eyes and opened them, “Keigo, one of the honored guests. He’s…” Because it was easier to show than explain, Kabaji took him by the hand. Then, remembering that he could no longer touch Atobe carelessly, looked at the business owner in question. Atobe alleviated Kabaji’s concerns with a gentle squeeze that tried to say, I’d never love you any less than I always have.

Quiet contentment replaced some of the tension written into Kabaji’s face and Atobe thought that – maybe -- he got the message.

Kabaji escorted Atobe back to his suite, through the chaos of dancing okinawans and customers eagerly following Ohtori and Shishido’s interactive lesson on healthy dom-sub dynamics. As soon as they reached the room, the problem became absolutely apparent.

Among Atobe’s jeweled and satiny clothes sat Kite Eishirou. The former hit man was tangled up in no less than three expensive feather boas and trying with all his might to force his feet into a pair of Atobe’s spectacular gold sequined boots.

Atobe was livid. “Those are Christian Louboutin!”

Kite grinned, “They look better on me.”

In Atobe’s opinion, he was entirely justified in demanding that Kabaji haul Kite up, forcibly carry him out among the crowd, and lock him up into one of the human-sized birdcages by the bar.

“Help me,” Hiyoshi said, eyes dead as he looked from Kite to Atobe. The only person who outdid the bartender in distress was Chinen, who sat glumly in a corner, trying to keep Hirakoba from putting more glitter in his two-toned hair.

“I daresay that you can babysit a caged man,” especially as Kite seemed to have taken nicely to Hiyoshi as a fellow martial artist. He danced at the younger man and crooked a finger, trying to entice his way into a free drink.

“Fine,” Hiyoshi said, gathering the ingredients for a kamikaze. Instead of feeding it to Kite, Hiyoshi took the shot his damn self and ignored the hit man’s indignant demand for one. “Then you can deal with that,” the bartender pointed toward a lively corner, where Oshitari and Fuji sat huddled together with many and myriad umbrella accented drinks. On the other side of Fuji sat Akutagawa, who had nodded off onto the tensai’s shoulder.

“Really? So that’s the Swallow Returns?”

Fuji chuckled. “Indeed. The slightest flick of the whip can make all of the difference.”

“I may well steal that.”

“Given your record, Yushi-kun, I’m surprised that you haven’t already.”

Oshitari only grinned and leaned forward. “How about the Brown Bear?”

Fuji’s smile flashed his teeth sharply. “Well. When Taka-san drops to his knees --”

Akutagawa woke up for a few seconds of the conversation, which was enough for him to contribute, “Drop bears? Oh -- I heard about the ones in Australia. If you walk under a tree, it’ll drop right on your head!”

Mukahi jumped off of his swing, summoned to the trio by the tangential connection to his eternal rival. “Australian formation? Are you talking about Kikumaru? Where is that fuck, Seigaku, huh?!”

As continuing to let Seigaku’s tensai film Mukahi rant and try to outdo Kikumaru Eiji tried in drunken acrobatics would only serve to send the evening into downward spiral, Atobe stood on top of the bar and snapped his fingers.

Silence. Atobe still had it.

“Let there be music!” Atobe declared, and so the bass dropped and the rabble danced.

 

+

 

Atobe knocked back a glass of expensive Armagnac as a frat boy would cheap vodka. Valentine’s Day had been an enormous business success and plans were already in the works to develop a complementary White Day event. He should have been proud of his lucrative business endeavor, but his feelings were more tangled than he felt comfortable admitting. So he indulged in the liquor that was technically his to drink and sprawled on the bar that was technically his to lie across like one of Leonardo Dicaprio’s French girls.

“Well aren’t you the picture loneliness submitted to the dictionary,” Oshitari took a seat on a barstool before Atobe and arranged his long, suited legs. Elbow crooked and cheek nestled into his hand, Atobe flicked his gaze at the interfering tensai. In the dim light, Yushi’s hair was more like rich ore than the deep blue he knew so well. Atobe was a little offended that it looked better than his, after the kind of night they just had.

“I don’t recommend that as a pick-up line,” Atobe said, tracing a finger around his glass.

“No?” Oshitari wheedled the glass from Atobe’s grip to steal a tiny pull. Barely a sip, because for all that Oshitari put on airs, Atobe knew that the genius couldn’t hold his liquor. “May I try again?”

With his now empty hand, Atobe gestured to speak freely.

Instead of feeding him words, Oshitari offered a kiss that tasted of aged oak and toffee. The florid liquor sat on his tongue in tantalizing contrast with the playful slant of Oshitari’s mouth teasing and tasting his. In the scant space between them, Atobe said, “That’s not a line.”

“Forgive me?” Oshitari’s lips smiled against Atobe’s.

“Earn it,” Atobe declared, his previously folded arm winding up to hold Oshitari by the unbuttoned collar.

When Oshitari laughed all baritone and brandy, Atobe felt a little drunk. “Now that’s a line,” Oshitari said. The tensai’s arms came up and around to cup his ass they belonged there. After a nice squeeze, well, maybe they did. Eyes dark and tender, Oshitari asked, “Really, Keigo. What has you like this?”

It was clear that Oshitari didn’t want to say Tezuka. Or Kabaji. As this was more about remembering himself than either of them, Atobe shook his head minutely and dipped just enough to skate his teeth over Oshitari’s ear. The way Oshitari sighed and dropped closer against him cleared some of his tumult, restoring Atobe’s faith in his own desires.

Yushi long, lissome fingers pushed into Atobe’s thighs as they smoothed down and then back up toward the apex. As Yushi’s lips followed, making pilgrimage down his chest, Atobe leaned back on the bar and watched, humming approval for every kiss.

When Yushi reached his navel and tugged up his shirt, Atobe nudged the glasses that threatened to slide clean off his nose, “Must you, with these?”

Yushi’s teeth traced the curve of his oblique and rejoined the tensai’s smirk. “You could wear them.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Atobe’s caress traced Yushi’s cheekbones to the corner of his delectably plush lips. “Megane fetish.”

“I would,” Oshitari admitted at a resonant purr that worked its way closer between Atobe’s thighs. “And there’s something else I would like.”

“How greedy. Be awed by ore-sama’s generosity,” Atobe reached for the glasses and perched them on his own nose. Admittedly, it was more to see Oshitari unguarded than to treat his companion to the vision of megane Atobe.

Oshitari smiled slowly and mouthed at the outline of Atobe’s pleasure. It pushed shamelessly up against the high quality spandex, hard for the scrutiny as if he hadn’t reached completion already that day. “I am very awed,” Oshitari commented, wetting his lips before he brought them heavier on the fabric, driving him crazy with open-mouthed kisses. “By your stamina. Always so energetic for me…”

“That’s more than I can say of you,” Atobe grumbled. But then Oshitari rolled down his shorts to reveal just his swollen tip. He thought his eyes would roll into the back of his skull when Yushi passed his tongue over the head in sensuous circles. The tensai assaulted the sensitive flesh with vibrations from sweet nothings and lips so soft that they were practically offensive.

He released Atobe lewdly, leaving his cock exposed and shining with spit. “It’s not my fault,” Oshitari complained as his hands escorted Atobe’s hot pants entirely down his finely muscled legs. “Little Yushi falls asleep when I drink.”

Atobe snorted and pushed his fingers through Oshitari’s luxurious locks, taking the blue strands at enough of a pull to make the tensai close his eyes and murmur. “That’s horrendous,” Atobe commented. “And exactly what you get for your tensai pissing contest with Fuji.”

“Were you jealous?” Oshitari asked slyly. “You know that you’re my favorite dick.”

“Ah, my manhood is so wonderful that it has ruined your sense of syntax. I understand completely, Yushi, it has happened to men better than...ohh…”

Oshitari chose that moment to embrace him. Heat flooded Atobe’s features and his smile was something vacant and silly for the sudden rush of blood below. It seemed to delight Oshitari and a laugh was a fantastic thing to have wrapped around his cock. With Oshitari there was no pressure to last, or to do anything aside from take advantage of the sweet, hot paradise that mouth brought to him freely.

“Yushi,” he gasped appreciatively. His fingers raked through Oshitari’s hair, coaxing his head to bob in time with his shallow thrusts. The tensai adjusted his angle, offering a deep slide down to a higher level of pleasure. Atobe cried out and Oshitari swallowed up all of him, features pink and pliant as he built a rhythmic crescendo that escalated and soared until there was nothing left for Atobe to do but fall helplessly into dark, consuming eyes.

For a second -- or ten -- no sound reached Atobe’s ears. He was not a person, but a shaking, melted mess with sex-mussed behead and glasses tripping down his sweaty nose. Although he had not reached any sort of completion, Oshitari was no better. Atobe expressed his gratitude and relaxation in gentled, affectionate petting.

“God,” the megane groaned, flushed and trembling as he nuzzled Atobe’s thigh in supplication for more attention to his hair.

“Dick?” Atobe corrected, smiling even as he caught his escaped breath.

The accomplished tensai chuckled, unwilling to move from his comfortable spot on Atobe’s lap. “You are my both,” he said, sleepy and entirely too honest. Atobe’s heart swelled, infusing his doting touch with enough fondness to sit warm and heavy like a full meal.

“As long as I’m not your little Keigo, you may continue to think as such.”

“I’m awed by your generosity, indeed,” Oshitari said, asleep rather than awed. “I promise to be even more awed if you can get us to bed.”

Deciding that he could take on that task for one of his precious loved ones, Atobe helped his tensai up and leaned in to kiss him tenderly. “Prepare to be amazed.”

 

+

 

OMAKE

It was time, Atobe decided. He opened the computer file containing the editable ticket images for White Day and, after changing a single word on his, printed and signed one with flourish.

On March 14th, Atobe opened the door to his favorite guest room and stopped in surprise. A positively ferocious smile grew on his lips. When he saw Tezuka, simply clothed and kneeling with his hawk-like hazel eyes in open rebellion, Atobe knew that this was going to be something great.


End file.
